Swamp Song


It occurred to me: Nature was loud. It must have been hours. The crickets seemed to reach into my ears – with their sharp, tangy little legs – and rattle my ear bones.

The smell like rotting hay and mulch became a part of me and me of it.

The frogs: Ack ack. Ack ack. Ack ack.

How many? A million. Countless. Who knows? Tiny little frogs. Behind me, around me, watching.

Ack ack.

I pulled out my phone again, for the 100th time that night, checked, no service. Still. No surprise. I could play the stupid games if I wanted to, though, something to drive away the blackness of the swamp night, but I don’t dare use up the battery.

There’s a barn in the distance, and if I look far enough, another one, and another. There are always barns in the distance here, where you’re not totally in the woods, and nowhere near civilization. Barns are like fireworks. You can see them for miles, but you can’t touch them. By the time you get there, they’re gone – or you wish they were.

I need to get on that quarterly report.

Ah, God, why can’t I wake up today?

More of the breakroom coffee does nothing for me, it’s just like throwing pebbles at a sandstorm. It gets cold as my eyes slide shut again and I slip into

the swamp

and now I am wet and i am muddy


in the distance i hear music, it’s coming from a barn

above me the trees wave back and forth

black branches against the night

back and forth

i sink into the mud

ack ack


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